Forgive me and take this free Taco del Mar taco. Please.

You’ve gotta love this one courtesy of Taco del Mar, whose latest promo — honoring Global Forgiveness Day — dispels the notion that love means never having to say you’re sorry. In in name of “spreading good karma, peace and love” they’re inviting you to go to their Web site and send customized e-cards to friends and loved ones, redeemable for a free taco on August 27. I intend to send one to my sister Jill, who will be celebrating her birthday August 27. And another one to my mother. Why? Because, as my mom said in a phone message just the other day (affect big-time Philadelphia accent and a voice dripping with familial venom): “This. Is. Your. Mother. Cawl me. I haven’t heard from you in months: M-O-N-T-H-S! Neither has your sister.”

Yo, mom: take two tacos and I’ll call you in the morning.

Of course, I’ll have to send them each a snail-mail card thereafter with money for gas, since my sister lives in South Jersey (162 miles from the nearest Taco del Mar in Annandale, VA), and my mom lives in one of those golf-cart villages in South Carolina (373 miles from the nearest free taco in Port Charlotte, FL). But the good news — for me, at least — is that many of the people on my “please forgive me”-list do live near a Taco del Mar (whose locations may be found right here).

My list is unconscionably long, and I’d like to take advantage of the promotion to get something off my chest in this very public space. OK, here goes:

I have been ignoring my family and my friends, not returning phone calls and e-mails, not sending birthday cards and graduation cards (hello my darling nieces!). I’ve meant to call, to write — the way I used to do when my life was full of “time.” You know: back when I was single and didn’t have a kid (whom I ignored again this morning as I sat blogging away while his dad got him up, made him breakfast and sent him off to day camp).

What can I say: time is of the essence. And my essence stinks, I’ll admit. I like to blame it on this crazy job — the one that has me coming and going and cooking and eating and writing and yakking at breakneck speed. And then there’s the house, always in need of attention and now in the middle of a major remodel. P.S. the electrician just came into my home-office to tell me he’d broken a bottle of DeLille D2, which is a good thing, because he didn’t break the 1998 Chateau Beychevelle bordeaux we bought to honor Nate’s birth year: the one Mac and I hope to be sipping with him on his 21st birthday — if they’re still talking to me, given how much I’ve been ignoring them lately.

Not that you’d know about the house thing, Mom. And that goes for Jill, too. Unless, of course, you read my blog or follow me on Twitter, where I now have a lot of new friends-who-aren’t-really-friends, like those very nice people who recognized me in Molly Moon’s Wallingford shop yesterday afternoon after I hit the lighting sale at Harold’s to buy a pair of sconces.

And if you’re one of my nearest and dearest and reading this horribly self-serving mea culpa, thinking you’re the only one who feels perpetually ignored by me (hello BFF Rebecca Foree!), know you’re not alone and that I regularly berate myself for ignoring you. Need proof that you’re not the only one? Look no further than Friday’s e-mail missive from my friend Stuart, who (small world!) recently moved next door to my former landlady and longtime pal Lynda. The subject-line was “An actual conversation” (between my two pals), which went exactly like this:

Me [Stuart]: I think she’s ignoring us. I’ve sent her emails and she never

responds.

Lynda: Yeah, I’ve called her a couple times and she doesn’t return the

calls.

Me: Maybe she’s just too busy.

Lynda: Too busy for us? Pshaw!

Me: I say we drive out to Edmonds and kidnap her.

Lynda: Or worse.

Me: Maybe she doesn’t love us anymore.

Lynda: Maybe.

Hello? Yes, I love you two. And man do I owe you a taco — preferably at one of those little places in White Center Lynda’s always trying to drag me to. Or better yet, to her house in Mexico where surely we can cook up some mighty fine ones (in my dreams).

Anyway, this is my long-winded way of saying if you’re one of the hundreds of friends, readers, family members, PR-folks and restaurant owners who e-mail me with info, questions, warm hellos, angry rants, bits of gossip or letters I’ve been dying to respond to (I’m talking about you, Marie Beltran!), what I really owe you is time, not a taco. Though if I had time, I’d send you a taco. Really. I mean it. So, forgive me?

About us

Bethany Jean Clement is The Seattle Times food writer. Her writing has also appeared in Best Food Writing, Food & Wine, Gourmet.com, Beard House, Town & Country, Edible Seattle, The Stranger and more. Follow her on Twitter: @BJeanClement.